


Identity Crisis

by HermitLibrary_Archivist



Series: Identity Crisis/Jorge [1]
Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:57:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4829933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermitLibrary_Archivist/pseuds/HermitLibrary_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Gemini</p>
<p>Blake gets a message with an old rebel contact code.  He goes to the rendezvous because he knows he never revealed that code under interrogation.  But nothing is ever exactly what it seems, and what happens will shatter Blake's sense of identity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Identity Crisis

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Judith and Aralias, the archivists: This story was originally archived at [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hermit_Library), which was closed due to maintenance costs and lack of time. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2015. We posted announcements about the move and emailed authors as we imported, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hermitlibrary/profile). 
> 
> This work has been backdated to 26th of May 2008, which is the last date the Hermit.org archive was updated, not the date this fic was written. In some cases, fics can be dated more precisely by searching for the zine they were originally published in on [Fanlore](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page).
> 
> Previously published in 'Forbidden Star One'. Artist Val Westall. Prequel to 'Jorge'.

Blake stared at the screen. Ziegler Four hovered before him, blue and white swirls decorating its surface. A beautiful world, but one he would never be able to contemplate without pain. He knew it intimately, had seen its valleys and farms, seen the settlers laughing and joking; but he had never seen it at all.

      He slammed his fist hard on a console. Lies. All damned lies. Everything that he thought he knew about the place was a lie. The sister and brother who had sent him tapes of their life there were dead - had never even lived there. His only other brother worked for security, and hadn't spoken to Blake since he'd founded the Freedom Party. He had no family now, and half of what he remembered about them was probably false anyway. Marianne hugging him as she left for the colony ship and inviting him to visit someday - was that real, or just a created memory? Steven, and his five year plan for grain exports from the new colony - no, that had to be wrong. Steven had been as committed to the rebellion as Roj had been. He wouldn't have wanted to prop up the government with cheap food supplies.

      What was  _rea_ _l_? His head ached. Blake pressed hands to his temples in an intense effort to remember. He had to  _know_ , or else everyone he had known was dead twice over.

      "Blake? You look like a man with a problem." Avon's comment was flippant in tone, but Blake sensed a thread of genuine concern.

      "I'll manage," he said brusquely.

      Avon moved closer, in a way that always seemed slightly intimidating. "Will you indeed? And what about the rest of us who are dependent on you managing?"

      "I -" Blake bit back his automatic reply. He needed the reassurance of genuine human contact, even if it had to be Avon. He sagged, closing his eyes for an instant, in an effort to will the pain away.

      Avon's hand rested lightly on his shoulder. "They're dead. You have to accept that."

      Sympathy disconcerted him. "How did you know?"

      "You're not the only one who can ask Orac questions." Brown eyes read more from him than they should have been able to. "It still bothers you doesn't it?"

      And there was a missed opportunity. Avon not pulling him to shreds for his guilt, not intimating that Blake would be the cause of his own death, not reminding him of Gan. Sometimes Avon gave you of his best, just when you expected the worst. But then of course, Avon knew what it was like. Del Grant's sister - Avon undoubtedly felt some responsibility for her death.

      "Thanks," he said quietly.

      Avon nodded slightly, with understanding in his eyes, and moved to investigate something on his console, visibly present, but not intruding. Blake found himself grateful for that. It was officially his watch, but he had the comfortable feeling that Avon would stay around. In an odd way, it was like being home again.

      

      

+Information+

      Blake moved his bishop to take Jenna's knight, and turned to face the computer. "What is it, Zen?"

      +A message has been received for Roj Blake.+

      "Put it on visual."

      A man's face came sharply into focus on the screen.

      "Blake, my name is Harriman. Contact code aleph zero, seven four zero. There is an abandoned research station on Christiana, an asteroid in the Epsilon Eridani system. I will be there for the next three months. Meet me there as soon as possible."

      "Zen, lay in a course for Epsilon Eridani, standard by eight."

      "Here we go again," muttered a quiet voice behind him. It might have been Vila, but Blake didn't think so. He waited expectantly. Sure enough, Avon appeared in front of him a few seconds later, glare set firmly in place. "Just like that?" Avon demanded. "No discussion?"

      "Just like that," Blake said softly. "Exactly like that, Avon."

      He tipped over his king, tacitly awarding the game to Jenna, and moved to leave the flight deck, but Avon blocked his exit.

      "That message was on an open channel: anyone could have heard it."

      Blake conceded the point. "Zen, bring the long range detectors on line." Without waiting for Zen's confirmation, he looked Avon directly in the eye. "Satisfied?"

      Avon stared right back at him. "For now."

      Which simply meant that the argument would be resumed later. Well, if he could get away from Avon for a while, at least he'd have time to get his thoughts together, perhaps he'd even be able to come up with a convincing reason. The code was a priority: only himself and a few other members of the Freedom Party had ever known it. Three of whom who were still alive, and any one of them might need his help. Explaining the importance of the code wasn't the difficult part; Avon would accept that, albeit reluctantly. No, the difficulty arose from the fact that the code dated back to before his original arrest and interrogation five years ago. He'd given the Federation so much then, told them almost everything he knew. So, why should this piece of information be any different? And Blake had no answer for that, except that he knew. He knew he'd never told them.

      It was his own particular curse, to remember the beatings, the interrogations and murders in vivid detail, but to have lost the good times and the memories of those that he'd loved.

      He gave a brief, uncharacteristic smile, and walked off the flight deck doing his best to show no more apparent concern than if they had been discussing the weather on Cygnus Alpha.

      Temper barely in check, Avon stalked over to Orac to begin a search for data. When Blake was secretive, it made sense to get as much information in advance as possible. Half an hour later, he gave up in disgust. The medical research station on Christiana had been abandoned for decades, there were no reports of recent visits, no discoverable rebel connections, in short, no obvious reason at all for Blake to go there. It appeared to be simply a location for a rendezvous and nothing more.

      

      

Avon buckled the gunbelt around his waist as he walked into the teleport bay. Blake looked at him. "Ready?"

      "Of course. I would prefer it, though, if you were to give me some idea of what to expect down there."

      "There's no danger."

      "So you say."

      Blake shrugged. "You don't have to come."

      Avon smiled a fleeting smile. "And miss finding out what you're up to? I don't think so."

      Apart from saying that he had to meet someone, Blake had been no more forthcoming about his plans than he had been at the start. Avon didn't trust the situation. In his opinion, Blake was too trusting by far. He held his gun at the ready and waited.

      Blake nodded to Vila at the teleport controls, and  _Liberator_  vanished to be replaced by a room full of complex equipment. Avon recognised various types of diagnostic tools, some looking in remarkably good condition for their supposed age. Still, it was possible that the station had been mothballed rather than simply abandoned - an inert atmosphere would have preserved the contents without any decay. Which simply begged the question of why anyone had taken the effort to come here, replace the atmosphere and start up the artificial gravity once more.

      "Across and safe," Blake reported.

      Avon's attention was distracted by a man entering though a door; he swung his gun around automatically to cover him. The stranger held up his hands, showing them to be free of weapons and Avon allowed himself to relax a little.

      "Harriman?" Blake queried.

      Avon didn't allow his surprise to show. He'd assumed Blake could at least recognise the man. It would seem that Blake had come here simply on the strength of a code number - that was disquieting.

      "Yes." Harriman nodded at Blake, pointedly ignoring Avon's gun. "I'm glad to see you could make it. You teleported?"

      Blake nodded and then got to the point. "What was so important that you used an emergency contact code, and who gave it to you?"

      "I believe I can be of great assistance to you."

      "How?"

      Harriman smiled slightly. "I can give you back your memory."

      Of all the things Blake had been expecting, this was not one of them. Memory: to have his past complete again; to be finally free of the false memories implanted by the Federation; to regain the friends he'd thought forever lost. That would be a gift beyond price. The memories that he had regained were mostly related to stress situations; the ones that he most wished to rediscover hovered tantalisingly beyond his grasp.

      "And just how do you propose to do that?" Avon said with his usual scepticism.

      Blake appreciated the caution. There was nothing apart from intensive psychotherapy that was capable of doing the job, and that could probably take months. Months that they didn't have to spare.

      "Sit down, and I'll explain." Harriman gestured to a chair.

      Blake took a seat, and after a moment, Avon followed suit. Harriman pulled a chair from in front of a terminal and began: "Last year, I was doing research into the way personality traits affect brain rhythms, when I came across the results of an earlier project. It was an attempt to discover the causes of aberrant behaviour in dissidents. Many prints were taken from political criminals and studied for common patterns. When you were first arrested, before your trial and subsequent confession, the authorities took your brain print."

      "A library of rebels?" Avon queried. "A dangerous collection, I should have thought. Any aspiring rebel leader acquiring a copy could instantly make himself into a carbon copy of Blake. Not," he added sardonically, "that I can actually imagine anyone wanting to become like Blake. One illogically minded fanatic in the galaxy is quite enough."

      "Wouldn't work," Harriman replied. "A brain print is very specific to an individual brain. Copy a brain print onto the mind of another individual, and the data wouldn't match the genetic structure of the brain. The result would be instant insanity."

      "Would anyone notice the difference in Blake's case?"

      Blake interrupted. "You're saying that the print they took then can be mapped back onto my brain. But what about events since then? I don't want to lose my memory of recent events, I'd be just as badly off as before."

      "No, no," Harriman gestured impatiently. "The way in which your brain stores memory is sequential. New memories are laid down in different positions to old ones. The old memories will only overwrite the portion of the brain where they were originally stored. Newer memories will be untouched." He leaned forward eagerly. "Don't you see? You can be a whole man once again."

      It was tempting, terribly tempting.

      "And suppose this is all an elaborate plot," Avon said. "A way to restore Blake to being a puppet of the Federation once more? Perhaps that print belongs to another man and you're lying about the genotype needing to match?"

      Harriman shrugged. "Devise your own safeguards, if you wish. I have nothing to be afraid of."

      "Why are you doing this? What's in it for you?"

      "When I realised that the print existed, I had no choice but to steal a copy. I knew Blake: I was a member of the Freedom Party."

      Blake felt certainty take over. "Avon, I want to do this. Can you understand? I have to do it." He gazed into Avon's eyes until he saw reluctant agreement there. "I won't do it blindly. I want you with me all the time. If anything goes wrong, kill Harriman. And Avon," he hesitated a moment, the words suddenly difficult to say, "if anything goes really badly wrong, kill me. I'd rather be dead than betray my friends again."

      Avon understood the message. All the messages in fact. He'd never known anyone like Blake for packing so much meaning into one sentence. Probably what had made the man such a good rabble rouser. The surface meaning was obvious. Blake would rather be dead than a slave to the Federation once more. Much though he'd like to have dismissed it as theatrics, he had to believe it, because Blake must know that Avon was quite capable of killing him. The secondary message was for Harriman, to let him know that his life was on the line and that even in the unlikely event that Harriman was willing to die to give Blake to the Federation, they would still lose. The third meaning though, that was the killer. It always had been. Blake was calmly and deliberately placing his life in Avon's hands. Even now, Avon found that hard to get used to, because no one ever trusted him. No one except Blake. And Blake did it quite casually as though it was a matter of no moment at all, as though Avon wasn't the man who had embezzled five million credits, wasn't the man who had caused Anna's death, wasn't the man who had come within a hair's breadth of abandoning Blake on Cygnus Alpha. Because Blake was a stupid, idealistic, woolly-headed... Avon stopped, lost for a word that combined friend and moron all in one. Blake was simply Blake and it was impossible for Avon to decide whether he hated him more than he... Well, perhaps it was simpler to just think about hating him.

      "All right," he said, because there wasn't really anything else to say.

      

      

The operation, such as it was, appeared to be relatively straightforward, but seemed to last for hours. According to Harriman, the difficult part was taking the brain print in the first place. Avon, gowned and wearing a mask, watched the entire proceeding. The painstakingly slow transfer of data continued in a long, drawn out silence. Avon understood the barest fraction of what was going on, but then he only had one part to play. He cradled his gun, filled with uncertainties, and waited for Blake to regain consciousness.

      

      

The body on the bed was flaccid and oddly lifeless in repose. Avon knew from the breathing that Blake was alive, but without the power and vitality of the whole man. If he were to reach out and touch the body now, there would be no response of any kind. And in knowing that, there was no temptation to touch. Here in the silence, with only Harriman and the flickering monitors for company, he was free to consider the other draw Blake had for him. A feeling only nebulous and half formed, but a pull towards that essential masculine force that was Blake.

      

      

The brainwave pattern on the monitors was steady now. Harriman was speaking softly. "Blake, this is Harriman. You'll be waking up in a moment. You'll feel strange and confused at first. You'll have a lot of unfamiliar memories. Don't make any sudden moves, relax, lie still and let your mind work out what's happened. Remember, I'm here to help you."

      Still Avon waited silently. There was a subtle change in the body before him, so slight that he wasn't sure that he was imagining it. A slight tension in the limbs that suddenly lent animation to the flesh. There was no movement, and yet the whole quality of the man had changed. Now, Avon was aware of the life force, the whole subtle quality of a living being. Each minute hair was in some way charged, each muscle had shape. He was subliminally aware of the smell of Blake's skin. He moved closer, trying to understand his own reaction, studying Blake's face for signs of animation. Then the eyes flickered open, looking directly into his own.

      "Avon?" Blake asked uncertainly.

      "Who else?"

      "Is it all right if I sit up?"

      "Wait." Before anything else, he had a duty to carry out, a promise to fulfil. Avon held his gun carefully, covering both Harriman and Blake. "Answer me three questions: Which is Vila's flight position? What colour outfit was Cally wearing when you first met her? What is my middle name?"

      "Take it carefully," Harriman cautioned Blake. "You know the answers, but your mind will still be a bit confused. Just relax."

      Blake glanced at Harriman. "It's all right. I'll manage." He turned his attention back to Avon. "Vila takes front left. Cally was wearing red. I don't know what your middle name is. Do you have one?"

      Avon allowed himself a genuine smile and replaced the gun in its holster. "Welcome back."

      Blake sat up cautiously and rubbed his forehead. "I've got a helluva headache."

      "Do you remember anything new?"

      "Oh yes, I remember a lot of things." Blake came unsteadily to his feet and crossed the short distance to the table where his gunbelt lay. He picked up the weapon and swivelled it to point between Avon's eyes. "Lots of things."

      

      

White-walled and empty, the old isolation ward still retained a faint smell of antiseptic; small and windowless, it offered its prisoner no visible avenues of escape. The door was secure - Avon had tested it. A careful search by Blake had already removed the lockpick that he kept in his shoe. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Avon tried to determine just what had happened. Something had obviously gone wrong with the memory transfer process, but exactly what he was unable to determine. There were several possibilities, and he lacked the medical knowledge to evaluate them. All he could conclude was that Blake had been heavily conditioned in some manner.

      Several hours later, the door opened to reveal Blake, carefully backed up by Harriman. Avon evaluated the chances of successfully jumping them, and decided not to try it at this time.

      Blake smiled at him as Avon came to his feet, a calculating smile that seemed oddly out of place on his face. "We need to talk, Avon."

      "Do we?"

      "Oh yes. You know more about  _Liberator_  than Roj did. I was quite disappointed to discover how little he had studied the systems. His memories are very clear about you though. You researched them in every spare moment you had."

      So, whoever he was talking to now, it wasn't Blake. Interesting, if true.

      "No," said the man, as though guessing his thoughts, "I'm not Roj Blake."

      "Who?" It didn't really seem to matter that much, but curiosity won out all the same.

      "Actually, I'm his twin, Jorge. The only way to get the brain structure to match, or so I'm told."

      "And what do you want from me?"

      "Isn't that obvious? I want knowledge about  _Liberator_ , the information that will take months to glean without help. Roj's dead body is worth too much to the Federation for me to risk going back there. I need useful technology that I can sell in the independent worlds."

      "Give me a good reason why I should help you."

      Jorge smiled again. "Because we're alike, you and I. I've seen you through Roj's eyes and through my own. Roj thinks all people are capable of redemption - I know better. You're a man who likes money, independence, freedom, all things that he would never give you. You two were so different that you fought all the time. I can give you the things that you want, and more than that, I can give you the things that you don't even dare to ask for. My dear brother Roj never thought to ask why you stayed with him. He had the naive idea that you liked him. I know better. I know how you used to look at him, and I know it for what it was."

      Avon shivered, as though on the verge of some great revelation. "I don't know what you're talking about."

      Jorge passed his gun to Harriman, and stepped into the room, closer to Avon. "Oh, but you do. Poor Roj was as straight as they come, no wonder he never noticed you that way. Now, me, I'm far more open minded about such things, and besides, you're a very attractive man."

      Avon's eyes widened as Jorge stepped closer. Mere inches separated them, and there was nothing Avon could do. Harriman was there, gun in hand, clearly ready to use it. A hand brushed lightly against Avon's cheek and he flinched away. Jorge simply smiled sardonically.

      "Ah, you turn from me, but you wouldn't turn away if it were dear Roj touching you."

      "You're mistaken."

      "Really?" Strong hands reached out, gripping Avon's face tightly, pulling him off-balance so that he stumbled against the bigger man. His face released, his arms were trapped against his body. Angry, he struggled but to no avail. Jorge's lips came down on his. A hard kiss, a small part of his mind rationalized, full of anger and the desire to dominate. Not so surprising.

      What surprised him was his body's response. Avon felt it, felt himself stiffening against the hard body holding him so tightly. It's not Blake, a little voice whispered, but his body, his senses were at war with his mind. Somehow he had known Blake's body would feel like this, that his kiss would take breath away and make the heart pound.

      Then the lips were gone and he looked up into a face that was Blake's and yet not. The eyes held a vicious lust that Avon had never seen in Blake's.

      "Definitely not mistaken," Jorge said softly, licking his own slightly swollen lips. "I have something to thank Roj for after all."

      He stepped back and gestured to Harriman to pass him a blaster. Avon watched with no small degree of trepidation. Blake might not always have been logical, but he was predictable. This one was different, Avon sensed, unpredictable and dangerous. Blake had always been capable of violence but not deliberate cruelty. This Blake was everything the other was not. The gun-barrel stroked along his cheekbone, and Avon gave an involuntary shiver, fear beginning to intrude on his shocked surprise.

      "Cold?" Jorge enquired. "I can easily remedy that. As soon as you agree to cooperate."

      "And if I refuse?" Avon's mind noted in a detached manner that his voice was steady in spite of the two guns pointing in his direction.

      "I'll have to convince you." The look in Jorge's eyes was as cold as any Avon had ever directed at his twin, and laced with anticipation. Avon wondered how long it would take for the others to decide to attempt a rescue. They might leave him here, but they would never abandon Blake without sure knowledge of his fate. If they could capture Jorge and force Harriman to reverse whatever he had done...

      "Perhaps you want convincing - "

      Avon's attention snapped back to the man in front of him.

      " - I doubt Roj could give you that kind of pleasure."

      "Perhaps he doesn't need that kind of role to feel pleasure himself." Avon saw his mistake too late. Jorge lashed out, and before Avon could even attempt a defence, the butt of the blaster slammed into the side of his head, and he slumped to the ground.

      

      

Avon awoke with a throbbing in his skull to match the pain in his back from lying on the floor and an ache in his shoulder muscles from having his arms bound behind him The floor was cold against his skin, and with sick realisation, he knew that he was naked and vulnerable to whatever Jorge intended. Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light, he stared around him. The room was empty as before, only the ancient medical charts on the wall gave any clue that this had once been a place for healing the sick. He was alone. With difficulty, he struggled to a sitting position, trying to ignore the pain that caused in his shoulders.

      The click of the door opening shocked him into alertness and he watched warily as both Jorge and Harriman entered the room.

      "I see you're waiting eagerly for me, Avon. Don't worry. I intend to give you all that poor Roj wasn't even aware you wanted."

      Avon ignored Jorge for the moment as he stood up, bracing himself against the wall, and directed his attention to Harriman. "What did you do, imprint Jorge's pattern on Blake's brain?"

      "Perhaps," Harriman replied. "However, it's hardly relevant to you at this time."

      "Why did Blake trust you?" A horrible feeling was growing in Avon's chest. Blake had been so willing to trust, to believe this man. "Did you plan it this way? Set Blake up?"

      Jorge's hand came up to Avon's mouth, covering it.

      "I could gag you."

      It was said almost conversationally and Avon knew there was no getting out of this. But Blake's words, and his own agreement, echoed in his ears. "If anything goes really badly wrong, kill me. I'd rather be dead than a puppet again." Had Blake been a puppet all along? And how could he find a way to keep his promise? Or had Blake been a willing partner, his trust a ruse? No. Avon shook his head. He couldn't have been that wrong about the man.

      Hard hands were caressing him knowingly now, brushing against his nipples, then pinching hard, drawing a sharp gasp from his lips. He tried to pull away but there was no place to go, cold wall at his back, Jorge just inches away.

      "Like that, do you? Even if dear brother had been bent, he couldn't have given you what you need." Jorge pressed against him, one hand cupping his balls in an achingly vulnerable grip, the other stroking the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. Avon squirmed, he couldn't help it, tried to kick until the hand on his balls tightened, warning him.

      "Stay still."

      Avon froze, panting with the strain on his arms and a horrible feeling of helplessness. Suddenly, the vice grip on his anatomy eased, and the heavy body moved back. Nothing. Avon waited, watching the other men for a sign of what was to come. He knew, had known from the beginning, that Jorge was intent on rape, but why was he waiting?

      "Avon." One word, said so gently it might have been Blake, accompanied by the powerful force of a hand impacting hard against his face. Avon jerked at the blow, shoulders screaming their protest as they slammed into the wall. Spinning away, Avon backed off warily. He was well aware of Blake's greater strength, it had saved his life on more than one occasion. Saved it for this?

      "Is this really necessary?" Harriman protested.

      "What does it matter? He's a criminal."

      "This isn't you. Can't you get the information some other way?"

      "No," Jorge snapped. "I have to do it this way. I have to break him."

      Avon tensed. He had to do something, anything but let Jorge casually take what he so obviously wanted.

      "Come on, Kerr," Jorge sneered. "Why play hard to get? You wanted Blake. You have him."

      As Jorge crowded close again, Avon kicked out, connecting briefly with the other man's muscular thigh before Jorge twisted out of the way.

      "Naughty! You need to be punished."

      Before Avon could slip aside, the strong arms that had so often protected him, captured him. Struggling was of no use as Jorge shoved him over to the wall, and slammed his head into it, making his vision spin. Avon closed his eyes, shutting out the sight, as Jorge's lips crushed down on his, Jorge's weight painfully forced him against the wall.

      "Roj would never do this for you," Jorge whispered breathily.

      Eyes still tightly closed, Avon felt hands brush the hair from his forehead, then cup his face, a tongue brushing against his eyes, cheeks. It made him want to weep for what he had never had and now never would have, to scream out his angry humiliation and rage over what was being done to him, over what had been done to Blake. So he did what he could. When Jorge brushed against him, Avon kicked out, his knee barely missing Jorge's groin.

      Jorge jerked back with a howl of pain. "You little bastard!" He slammed his fist into Avon's stomach. Avon reeled back in agony, gasping for breath, and fell to the ground, helpless to protect himself. Jorge stepped forward, too close, and Avon could see the killing anger in his eyes.

      Suddenly, Harriman grabbed Jorge by the arm

      "Jorge!" Harriman pulled at him. "Hurt him, humiliate him, if you have to, but don't become a murderer on his account. He's not worth it. Besides, he's no use to us dead."

      I won't help you alive either, Avon swore silently to himself. He would fight this, fight them for all he was worth, but he knew he had no chance of winning. Logic told him to surrender, but logic wasn't standing there in the form of the only man he might ever have given himself to.

      Jorge towered over him, smiling, obviously amused by Avon's predicament.

      "Sorry if I've made you wait for what you wanted."

      Furiously afraid and desperately angry, Avon struggled to his feet, striking out at Jorge as he approached. He managed to land one or two well-aimed kicks and a butt with his head, before Jorge's greater weight and strength drove him to the ground on his belly. He writhed beneath the heavy weight but Jorge was securely placed, well able to control him. Avon had never been able to match Blake's strength. He heard the sound of a zipper being unfastened, felt cold metal and hot flesh press against him.

      "This will be easier if your hands are in front."

      Avon heard the click of the cuffs releasing, his hands were yanked around in front of his head before he heard the sound of the cuffs being re-secured.

      "There. Now we won't bang your pretty face into the floor." Jorge sat back, tugging a sore and dizzy Avon with him. Avon's hips were pulled back and up, pressure on his shoulders forced his arms to take the weight of his upper body.

      Hearing the sound of spitting, Avon looked cautiously behind him. He felt a momentary touch of satisfaction at the graze on Jorge's cheek, a souvenir of their tussle, until his eyes dropped to the other man's body. Jorge was stroking himself, a mixture of saliva and pre-cum making his cock shine. Avon felt his face flush, cursed himself. He recognised the pull Blake's strong masculinity had for him. Confronted with it now, he was both attracted and repulsed. If only it were Blake and not Jorge, he thought desperately. A small part of him whispered, if only it were love not rape. He tried to ignore the voice; Blake or Jorge, it would be no different. If Jorge could do this, so could his twin.

      Again, Avon felt the hot, hardness pressing against him. He tried to move away, inching forward without success. One hand gripped his hip, holding him firmly while the other was busy at his entrance, probing. He clenched, and a finger forced its way in, painfully.

      "Nice and tight." Jorge's voice held a mocking approval. "Even Roj might have been tempted."

      He chuckled, making Avon seethe in humiliated rage. Blake wouldn't have been like this. They trusted... Avon squirmed, trying to close his legs against the thighs holding him open, trying to close his mind to thoughts that were becoming too painful.

      "Get on with it, will you," he hissed.

      "Glad to oblige."

      He gave a choked off scream. The pain was incredible, horrible, like fire stabbing through him. His muscles refused to relax, instead, clenching down, trying to expel the intruder. But the unrelenting pressure continued, forcing its way in, accompanied by Jorge's grunts and the tight grip of his hands on Avon's hips. Avon tried to pull away, to struggle, but his bound hands and the weight on his back held him captive. Beyond the haze of pain, he heard a faint voice urging him to relax, to think of Blake.

      Blake! Avon focused on him, on his Blake, trying to imagine what it might have been like if they were back on  _Liberator_ , if Blake were not straight, if they were in his cabin and they were warm and comfortable. Blake would be gentle with him, wouldn't hurt him like this. Passionate tenderness, that would be how Blake would be. Avon could feel himself relax slightly, muscles loosening. The thrusting continued, though it was less painful. Throbbing, with the occasional sharp pain of a particularly hard thrust, was all Avon's abused body felt at that moment. Another hard thrust and a groan from Jorge, and Avon felt the gush of fluid, Jorge's cock pulsing within him. The bigger man pulled out, fluid dribbling after him. Avon collapsed forward when released, arms unable to support him, and lay quietly, gathering his senses, ignoring the aching pain from within that was much more than just physical.

      Jorge smiled. Avon had been good. Such a tight arse, nice smooth skin, and so helpless beneath him. It had been such a long since he'd enjoyed himself so much. He wouldn't have to wait in future; he could have Avon any time he wanted. He glanced back at Harriman with a cocky grin, and looked down at the man he had just mastered.

      Avon was face down, clearly exhausted, obviously in pain, shivering slightly in a tense reaction. Jorge frowned. Why did that seem to bother him? A small amount of blood was smeared across the pale buttocks and the sight of it began to make him dizzy. What was wrong with him? He reached out to touch Avon's cheek, feeling it's cold chill, and it was as if the coldness was seeping into his bones. His head began to throb and his vision swam.

      "Blake? What's wrong?" Harriman sounded worried.

      "I don't know," Jorge mumbled. Kneeling beside Avon, he gripped a pale shoulder, just as another wave of pain struck. He moaned, but Avon didn't move, other than to look at him with dark eyes that seemed full of anger and reproach. He sat back on his heels. Why did that hurt so much? He needed Avon beaten down into submission so why did the result make him feel so sick.

      "Help me." He looked to Harriman. "Something's wrong."

      "Look away from him," Harriman ordered sharply. "Concentrate on your time in the security service, instead. Pick a date that means something to you. Tell me about it."

      Jorge looked at him fuzzily, then slowly regained control. "The date I got my first commendation: we'd infiltrated a group of Outer Worlds politicians who were attempting to gain an illegal monopoly on the grain market. If they'd succeeded, prices would have risen massively and created inevitable unrest. It took several months to crack it..." He took a deep breath and shook his head. "I think I'm a bit better now."

      "You fool," Harriman swore. "You had to have your little game. I told you it was risky. Yours is the dominant personality, but only because you're stronger and have the greater part of the memory."

      "You also said I'd be able to remain in control."

      " _Provided_  that you didn't go anywhere where Roj had strong emotional reactions."

      "They weren't lovers. Roj didn't give a damn about him."

      Harriman placed a hand on his arm. "You're lying, Blake. Why?"

      Jorge slapped the hand away in sudden fury. "You want to know why? That bastard Roj stole five years of my life. Five years! I want to destroy his damn revolution. I want to destroy everything that he ever cared about." Because he knew now, Roj's memories were driving him insane. Every step he took, he was fighting what Roj would have done. He had to destroy Roj in order to survive. He had to be different.

      Avon stirred on the floor. He felt cold all over. His body was cold. His heart was frozen. He was nothing and nobody. His sense of self had been violated, and self-respect had gone with it. If he had felt himself worth weeping for, he would have cried. All that he had left was an obligation, and he didn't know how to fulfil that, wasn't even sure if he wanted to any more. Blake had betrayed him. With the small fragment of his mind that still thought rationally, he knew it wasn't his friend that had done this, but the bruised and battered soul screamed out in agony at the hurt.

      Five years. The small analytical part of his mind that remained seized on the figure as a puzzle, anything to distract himself from what had happened to him. Five years ago, Roj Blake had been arrested as a leader of the Freedom Party: the time when Harriman claimed that a brain print had been taken. Did Jorge's brain print date from the same time? If the memories in the brain print were five years old, then Jorge might well regard part of his life as being missing. He was sure the knowledge ought to be useful, but he couldn't concentrate enough to work out how. He'd lost. He'd lost himself and he'd lost Blake too.

      Anna's memory formed briefly in his mind - he'd lost her also. She'd held out long enough to give him time to run, she'd never told the interrogators where their final rendezvous was to have been. He knew that for certain, because he'd waited there for three despairing days. Anna hadn't come, but neither had anyone else. How had they treated her before she died? Rape? Avon conceded the possibility. If Anna had held out for his sake, could he do any less for Blake?

      Five years...

      Avon sat up slowly and lifted his head to look Jorge in the eye. "You can't destroy anything. You're not real. You're just a five year old ghost stored on a piece of silicon."

      He'd intended to prove a reaction, but the strength of Jorge's response took him by surprise. Hauling Avon to his feet, he flung him back against the wall.

      "A ghost am I?" He slapped Avon across the face. "Wrong! Your friend was the ghost."

      Jorge gripped Avon by the chin, forcing him to look directly into his face, and spoke each word with quiet emphasis. "Roj Blake died under interrogation five years ago. But they needed what he knew - they needed their little rebel. They put his mind into my body. Do you understand my precious little queer? I am back, and I am staying."

      He kissed Avon possessively on the lips, and somehow the intimacy of that kiss was worse then anything that had gone before.

      Jorge smiled a moment, then walked out of the room followed by Harriman. Then and only then, did Avon allow the silent tears to fall down his face. Whether for Blake or himself, he no longer knew. The man he had loved was gone, perhaps had never even existed.

      

      

Not for the first time in the last five hours, Cally wished that Jenna was a calmer companion; the woman radiated tension, as she paced around the storage room they were confined in. Cally also wished that she understood what was going on. It was over six hours since they had received a call from Blake, urging them to join him immediately, saying that he and Avon had found the key to the destruction of the Federation. They had joined him, Jenna, Vila, and herself, only to be stunned, Jenna and herself waking up in this cell. Cally assumed Vila to be locked up somewhere else. But why? Why had Blake turned on them?

      "Why doesn't he come?" Jenna burst out, whirling around to face Cally, anger and frustration staining her cheeks. "Blake wouldn't do this, he couldn't, not to us!"

      The door opened and they heard Blake speak. "Blake wouldn't. But I would - and did."

      He stepped through the door to allow another man to enter by his side. Slightly smaller, his companion was a nondescript man with thin, light brown hair.

      "But..." Jenna trailed off, confusion evident. She glanced over at Cally.

      The Auron took in Blake's appearance. He was the same, and yet not the same, as the man who had left them earlier. His physical appearance and dress were identical, although a blaster hung where the  _Liberator_  gun usually rested; but the warmth of Blake's eyes was gone, the light of his thoughts while in their company. Cally closed her eyes. She was used to feeling compassion, concern, amusement, and sometimes affection from Blake. All she felt from this man was rage: anger and hatred foremost in his mind. Her eyes snapped open.

      "Are you still Blake?"

      Jenna gaped at her, but the man merely laughed.

      "Very good. You may call me Jorge."

      Cally's gaze narrowed, but it was Jenna who desperately asked the question:

      "What's happened to you?"

      "Happened to me?" the man mocked, his gaze speculative, assessing. "Physically? Not a thing." He eyed Jenna's form admiringly. "I may need a pilot until I can get a crew of my own. Cooperate and I'll let you go free afterwards."

      Jenna ignored him. "Conditioning?" she asked Cally, uncertainly.

      The Auron stared hard at Jorge, concentrating. "I don't think so."

      Jorge glared at her. "How would you know. You never knew Roj Blake."

      Something clicked. The anger, lust, and hatred she felt, they were wrong for Blake. Even if he'd been conditioned, he couldn't have changed that much, besides, there hadn't been time for a deep conditioning job - that would have taken months. Either this man was a clone, or else some other entity now inhabited Roj Blake's body. Was he operating alone? It seemed unlikely. Where was Avon? Had he been taken over too? She needed more data.

      "Where's Avon?" she demanded. "Is he all right?"

      Jorge's face darkened for a moment. He clutched convulsively at his gun, opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated and spoke to the man by his side.

      "Harriman, check up on him."

      "Are you sure?"

      "Yes!"

      Harriman glanced dubiously at the two women.

      Jorge scowled. "I can manage."

      Harriman shrugged and left, presumably to see Avon. Cally didn't know whether to be reassured or worried by that.

      "Who's behind this?" she demanded.

      The abrupt question startled Jorge into an apparently honest response. "Harriman."

      "He's a scientist?"

      "Of a sort," Jorge responded warily.

      "Not Federation."

      He smiled wickedly. "Not totally."

      //Jenna!// Cally tried to reach her companion. //We must get to Harriman to discover what happened.// She didn't yet know what she'd do when she found him, but her guerrilla instinct was to take action straight away. //Distract Jorge. Seduce him if necessary. He's interested.//

      Jenna gaped at her, cheeks flushing. But she quickly recovered from the surprise and turned her attention to the man in front of her. He had closed the cell door behind him and was now casually leaning against it. His blaster was in his hand, but his attention was focused on her. Focused in a manner that she'd always wished Blake would indulge in. Feigning interest wasn't at all difficult.

      "If you've changed," she said with a sultry smile, "just how much have you changed?"

      Jorge smiled at Jenna. She was undoubtedly attractive, and right now all he wanted was to drive Avon totally from his mind, to prove to himself there was nothing of Roj Blake left. If a bout of sex with Jenna would help to do it, so much the better. She seemed potentially interested. If he didn't have to force her, Roj's memories shouldn't interfere. Roj had never slept with her. He would create new memories, blaze his own path, a different one from his brother's. He reached out a hand, brushing Jenna's cheek, ignoring the other woman as irrelevant.

      Jenna almost flinched at the touch and Cally tried to reassure her. //Just a little more Jenna! A little more and I'll be able to get his gun.//

      Cally watched intently as Jorge's arms went round Jenna's body. As he kissed her, his attention slipped away from Cally. Slipping deftly behind Jenna, Cally reached out, wrenched the gun from Jorge's hand and pressed it to his head.

      "Don't move." A confident, deadly command.

      Jenna slid out of his grasp, as Jorge stiffened, fury darkening his features.

      "Without your bracelets, there's no place for you to go," he warned. "You can kill me but you'd still be stuck here."

      Jenna was unmoved. "If you've harmed any of our friends, particularly Blake, I think death would be too kind for you."

      Cally watched warily, well aware of Jenna's affection for Blake. Jenna reached down, removing the knife that protruded from the top of Jorge's boot. She pointed it at him, but significantly lower than the aim of Cally's gun. Cally couldn't see Jorge's face but she felt his fear. Some things, apparently, were worse than death. She smiled, stroking the blaster along the nape of his neck, enjoying the shiver he instantly stilled.

      "You can do whatever you like but I still won't help you." He flinched as Jenna traced the outline of his groin with the tip of the blade, but his head never dropped, his eyes staring firmly ahead. Cally almost admired him... Almost.

      "Really?" Cally stepped closer, pressing the blaster hard against the base of his skull. "You may not want to help us, but perhaps your companion will not be so determined. We want our crewmates back as well as our bracelets."

      Jorge pretended indifference, but under his anger Cally sensed unease. Harriman had to be the weak link. Leaving this one locked up here would be best, then they would be free to find Harriman and get the truth of what had happened to Blake, and Avon and Vila for that matter.

      Adjusting the setting on the blaster, Cally stunned him. Jenna dropped the knife, as she instinctively reached out to catch him before he hit the floor. There was a look of surprise on Jorge's face, making both of them shiver at the resemblance to their own Blake.

      Jenna stretched him out on the floor before she and Cally slipped out into the corridor, keying the lock behind them with an electronic key from Jorge's pocket. Silently working their way along the corridor, they checked each door. Most of the base seemed to be deserted. The rooms were empty or else filled with equipment that looked as if it had been years since it was last used. Finally, they found one room still occupied, a solitary figure sitting at one of the many computer consoles that lined the walls, staring at a picture on the screen. Cautiously, they approached. Seemingly oblivious to their presence, he flicked off the screen and pushed back his chair, then froze as Cally pressed her gun to the side of his head.

      "Harriman?" she asked, with icy calm.

      He looked up in surprise. "How did you get out? Where's Blake?"

      "If you mean the imposter," Jenna interjected, "he was unconscious when we left him. If you don't want to end up the same way, I suggest you start talking."

      "Where are Blake, Avon and Vila?"

      Harriman shifted uneasily in his chair. "I'm afraid, my dear ladies, you have completely misunderstood the situation. If you'll just allow me to explain..."

      Jenna hitched a shapely leg onto the edge of the desk and toyed idly with her knife. "I think you'd better," she said. "Starting with where Blake is."

      Mind racing, Harriman tried frantically to think of any story that would buy him some time: anything to allow himself and Jorge to get on top of the situation once more. Somehow Jorge had allowed the women to escape. His own fault really, he should have recognised that Jorge was going to be emotionally unstable at first. All things considered, it was surprising that Jorge hadn't cracked up completely once he'd realised what had been done to him. For a moment, he toyed with telling them the truth, but truth wasn't going to help him here.

      "I'm a psychiatrist," he explained carefully. "Your friend, Blake, has been becoming increasingly unstable recently. I was asked by various people I know in the rebellion to make contact with him, and try to arrange a course of treatment. Unfortunately, he seems incapable of facing the fact that he needs help; instead, his behaviour has flipped over into the completely irrational." He watched them carefully to see how they were taking it. The blonde seemed almost convinced, but the Auron was having none of it.

      "You're lying," she said sharply.

      Jenna threw her a questioning glance. Cally shook her head very slightly.

      //No, I cannot sense his thoughts, I do not know him well enough. What I do know is that the man we spoke to was not Roj Blake.//

      Harriman held his hands wide, trying to look as open as possible. "Did he differ physically from the man you know? Surely even a clone would have small differences. Does Blake have marks, scars that can be used to identify him? Examine the man, he is Blake. He's just suffering from a major delusion." His confidence was obviously making an impression on Jenna; her play with the knife wasn't so much a threat any more as a distraction for her indecision. The telepath was the problem. The little he knew of the Auronar suggested that they could only communicate with members of their own race. Surely it was worth gambling?

      "Blake is sick," he pleaded. "He needs our help. Come with me and we can treat him while it is still possible."

      With a falling feeling in his stomach, Harriman heard the sharp click of a gun setting being adjusted.

      //I am Cally of Auron. Tell me where Blake is, or you die.//

      Panic took over. "Don't shoot!" he begged, almost in tears. "You can't get Blake back without me." He held up a small rectangle of metal, barely bigger than his thumbnail. "This is his brainprint. You need me to restore it."

      Jenna swung her foot gently back and forwards. It was amazing, Harriman thought with the small corner of his mind that wasn't already terrified, how much menace could be implied in the simple motion of a leg.

      "So who," she inquired, with a sweetness that deceived no one, "is currently occupying Blake's brain?"

      The words tumbled out of their own accord. Harriman felt himself to be almost an observer, listening as he recounted the whole story, from his first meeting with Jorge Blake nine years ago, to the events taking place here and now.

      

      

Jorge and he had hit it off almost immediately. Assigned to the same security district, Harriman as a cybersurgeon, and Jorge as an investigative officer, they'd first become acquainted through working together, and then had pursued the friendship in their off duty hours. Although Lon Harriman was aware of Jorge's bisexuality, sex had never been a factor in their relationship. The basis of their friendship was in things more lasting, a shared interest in art, a common sense of humour, and a simple pleasure in each other's company. Loyalty to the Federation was a thing that they both accepted without question.

      It had been the activities of his brother that first caused Jorge problems. Roj Blake was becoming a well known name, and that was a handicap to a security officer. When Jorge was first passed over for promotion, he had accepted it, but the second time a coveted position had gone to a less qualified man, Jorge had protested. The reason wasn't hard to discover: his commanding officer was quite forthright. Roj Blake was a known resister, and his brother, in spite of an exemplary record, was a potential security risk. His excellent service record prevented them from firing him, but while Roj Blake remained at large, promotion for his twin was virtually impossible. From that point onwards, the hate began to grow. Hatred of all rebels. Hate and a sense of betrayal where his brother was concerned.

      At first it seemed as though Roj's capture and imprisonment had ended all their problems. They'd met in Harriman's quarters and celebrated in style. For a week, everything had been wonderful. Then disaster struck.

      Roj Blake was dead, but dead with the bulk of his knowledge still intact. He'd given up some basic information, some contact codes, a few names, but rebel leaders had been slipping off planet while Blake resisted questioning. An over-enthusiastic interrogator had given too high a dose of a drug, and Roj Blake had escaped from them in the only way left to him.

      That should have been it, would have been if it had not been for the brain print. An off-shoot of one of Harriman's own projects. Was it possible to identify resisters from their brain prints? he had wondered. Most of the information stored in a brain print was impossible to interpret - interrogations would have been beautifully simple otherwise - but was it possible to determine certain patterns, to identify those who were going to rebel before they actually did so? The idea was one with great appeal, and he'd arranged for prints to be taken from a number of prominent resisters after their arrest. Including Roj Blake.

      The idea hadn't been Harriman's, for that at least, he had always been grateful - it had been his superior's. Todd had come into Harriman's office the day after Blake's death and posed him a question: "What's to stop a brain print being impressed upon another man if we need to get at the information stored there?"

      "Genetic incompatibility. The print doesn't overlay properly, the storage patterns don't match. We've tried it - you just get insanity."

      "But suppose you do it to a man who is genetically compatible?"

      Todd smiled, and Harriman looked at him in dawning horror. "Blake's a loyal officer! You can't do that to him!"

      "On the contrary, it is precisely because Blake is a loyal officer that we can do this. If he refuses..." Todd let the sentence trail away unfinished, but Harriman could easily fill in the rest for himself. If Jorge was loyal, then he'd agree; if he refused, he was tarred with the rebel brush for life.

      "Besides," Todd continued, as though there had been no pause, "it's only for a few days. Once they have the information they need, you can restore him to normal. No problem."

      Jorge's agreement had caught Harriman by surprise.

      "Don't you understand," Harriman had protested to his friend, "whatever they do to Roj, you'll be there. When they torture him, it will be you."

      Jorge had shrugged. "So what? When you restore my own memory, I won't remember all that."

      "But that's just the point, you will."

      Harriman scrabbled around on his desk before finding the flimsy he was looking for. "Look, take this for example - these are contact codes your brother gave us after the brain print was taken, but before he died. Now the man who gave us that data doesn't exist on the brain print; as far as he is concerned, that information was never asked for, let alone given. From the moment the brain print was taken, until now, the memories your body will have are yours."

      Pursuing a fringe thought, he added offhandedly, "I'll have to block your memory of this last week." Then he got back to the subject in hand. "What I'm saying is that one body has one time track. If I take your brain print now, and put his in your body instead, when you are finally restored, you'll have all your own memories except for the period inbetween, for which you will retain his memories."

      "So block them! It'll only be a week or two," Jorge snarled. "Can't you understand? I want to do this. It's the only way I can finally get my revenge on my brother. It's the only way that I can finally prove my loyalty to the Federation. If I can destroy his Freedom Party, then it's worth it!"

      

      

Harriman returned to the present and looked at Cally.

      "But it wasn't just a week or two. They sold Jorge out. First they got Roj Blake to publicly confess and then they realised how politically useful it would be to have a reformed rebel around. What did one minor security officer count in comparison with ruining the credibility of the Freedom Party?" His eyes focused into the far distance. "And now Jorge gets sold out all over again." He laughed quietly and ironically. "I'll have no more say in the matter than I did when I performed the operation the first time. They say a real man will put his friend's life before his own. I only wish I was that brave." He glanced briefly at Cally before returning his gaze to the wall once more. "It took me five years to find a way to help Jorge. No one else will even admit that he exists any more. The powers that be can't afford it to be known that they created the monster they are now trying so hard to destroy."

      "Roj Blake is no monster," Jenna insisted.

      Harriman didn't bother to answer; there didn't seem any point in doing so.

      "You will perform the operation to restore Blake?" Cally demanded.

      Harriman nodded. He'd done his best and he'd lost; there was nothing else to be done. When they brought Jorge to him, dragging the still unconscious body between them, he was obscurely grateful. At least his friend would never suffer the final indignity of realising what was about to happen to him. He carried out the operation slowly and mechanically, watched every moment by the two women. Garbed and gowned for the sake of sterility, they watched him as closely as Avon had watched him the first time. He suggested in vain that one of them seek out their other friends; they seemed to suspect a ruse on his part, some trap that he might spring on one of them alone.

      As he watched the electrical readings of the patient's brain stabilise into the new pattern, he sighed. For good or for ill, the task was completed. Picking the small metal square of Jorge's brain print out of the heart of the computer, he clutched it tightly, as though it were a part of his own soul. Jenna held her hand for it, but he couldn't bring himself to part with that final trace of a human being.

      "Give it to me," she demanded forcefully. "While that exists, Blake will never be safe."

      Harriman shook his head numbly.

      Surprisingly, Cally came to his defence. "It was not his time to die. Perhaps someday it might be possible to create a clone."

      "Speak for yourself," Jenna replied tartly. "It wasn't you that he was pawing."

      "No." Blake's voice, rough with returning consciousness. "No." He flung his head from side to side and Jenna moved to comfort him. He opened his eyes abruptly and stared at her. "I thought... Did I... But I wouldn't."

      "It's all right," Jenna soothed. "Whatever happened, it wasn't you. It was someone else's mind in your body.

      "Cally?" she queried gently, needing to be certain.

      Cally nodded. "This is Roj Blake."

      Blake turned to look at her and began to smile. "Where's -" Then he sat bolt upright, the few remaining electrodes pulling free from his scalp.

      "Ohmigod. Avon!" He came to his feet as though to head for the door, and then stopped dead. He sat down again slowly. "Harriman, is he still..."

      "Yes."

      The agony was evident in Blake's face as he turned to Jenna. "Go to Level Two. You'll find Vila in a storage bay. No lock for him to pick, just a load of heavy boxes blocking the door. Get him out, and tell him to go to Room Seventeen on the same level and do what he can for Avon."

      "I'll go for Vila. Cally can go for Avon."

      "No." Blake seized her arm. "I think it would be best if it was Vila. Promise me."

      Puzzlement was obvious in Jenna's expression, but in the face of his insistence, she accepted the request. She didn't ask why, and for that Blake was grateful. The memory of Avon as he had last seen him was all too vivid. The fewer people who knew what had happened the better. He wanted desperately to go to Avon himself, to offer apologies, reassurances, anything he could to try and restore his own soul, but he was strong enough to know that this was not the time for Avon to come face to face with the man who had raped him. Avon's need would be for someone who would offer him no threat, someone who would cause him the least embarrassment. It had to be Vila.

      

      

"Jenna!" Vila leapt to his feet as she opened the door to release him. Jenna was smiling, so Blake, at least, was safe.

      "Come on, Vila."

      Vila gladly followed her into the corridor. "What happened? Where are the others?"

      "Blake and Cally are fine. What happened is a long story." Jenna paused, a look of puzzlement crossing her face. "I'm not sure I understand it all. But Blake is with Cally."

      Vila felt a chill race down his spine. Had he imagined the emphasis on Blake's name. "What about Avon? Isn't he with Blake?"

      "No, not with Blake."

      Vila opened his mouth for another round of questions but Jenna stopped him.

      "I don't know, Vila. Blake told us where he thinks Avon is." Her confusion was more apparent now. "He seemed worried about him, but he didn't want Cally or me to go and find him. He wanted you to go."

      "Me?" Vila said uneasily. "Why me? Avon doesn't even like me."

      Jenna smiled wryly. "Avon claims not to like anyone, but he does save some of his more creative insults for you. I don't know what Blake's so upset about anyway." She paused. "He didn't seem to think it was life-threatening. If Avon got knocked about a bit, it might even have taught him some humility."

      Vila couldn't help thinking that her analysis was too simplistic. Blake wouldn't fear an argument with Avon. If he was avoiding the man, there had to be a more complex reason than just having locked him up. He trailed Jenna down the corridor, wondering what had happened. What was Blake afraid of?

      "How much further?" he asked. This place seemed to have far too many levels and corridors.

      "Tired already?" Jenna asked. "Just a few more corners, I think."

      They were right in the heart of the complex, and Vila was getting more nervous the further they went. He had a bad feeling about the whole situation.

      "So you caught everybody?" he ventured hopefully, while his mind raced through all the possible reasons he could come up with for Blake wanting him to find Avon, as opposed to Jenna or Cally.

      "There were only two."

      Jenna's reply surprised him. "Two?"

      "Well, only one person really. A scientist called Harriman." Jenna frowned as if she didn't really believe it herself.

      "How did he get Blake to capture us?" Vila didn't like this, not one bit. How had this scientist controlled Blake?

      "He didn't, not really."

      "What do you mean?" Blake had contacted them. Vila had been there, had heard him.

      Jenna sighed. "It looks like Harriman lured Blake and Avon here and replaced Blake's mind with his brother's. Or something like that. Ask Cally." She added irritably, "It's over and that's all I care about."

      "Is it really," Vila muttered under his breath. If everything was over, Blake would have rushed to Avon's rescue himself. He was never laggardly when it came to rescuing his followers. Concern had always driven his actions before, so why not now? What else had Blake done under Harriman's influence? What kind of man had Blake's brother been that Blake now sent Vila in his place? Vila wasn't sure that he wanted to know.

      "Vila!"

      "Sorry." He had bumped into her, unaware that she'd stopped.

      "This is where Blake said Avon would be. He made me promise to let you go in alone." She reached out, slipping one teleport bracelet around his wrist and another into his hand. "For Avon," she added unnecessarily. "Call for teleport as soon as you're ready."

      She left and Vila stared at the door for a moment. It was locked but it took less than a minute for him to figure out how to open it. Cautiously, he pushed the door open, peering inside.

      

      

"Blake," Jenna interjected forcefully, "you can't possibly be considering leaving Harriman with Jorge's brain print."

      Blake didn't even look up as Jenna returned and joined in his argument with Cally.

      Before he could frame a suitable reply, she continued. "As long as the print exists,  _you_  are at risk, the _entire rebellion_  is at risk. Maybe a clone could receive the print, but you have no guarantee that Harriman would make that choice, even if he had the opportunity or the money."

      "I will not destroy the only remaining member of my family." Blake felt exhausted. He sat on the surgical couch, head throbbing, hands still trembling in reaction. He had raped Avon, abused and humiliated him. Sure of Cally's ability to guard Harriman, he rested his head in his hands, wishing to hell that he didn't remember.

      "Then kill Harriman and keep the print yourself."

      He glanced up briefly at Jenna's words.

      "Harriman is the only one who would know and he would be dead."

      Blake turned to look at the scientist. Harriman still cradled the print in his hand and Blake knew, as Jorge had known, that Harriman had been his friend, had cared what happened to him. Blake couldn't kill him, not in cold blood. He met the other man's gaze calmly, aware of the fear in Harriman's eyes.

      "No, Harriman will not be killed. But I will take the print." He saw the pain that caused Harriman and tried to explain.

      "I know you were his friend but I can't let something like that loose. I won't destroy the print. Maybe one day a clone can be made and Jorge helped, but not right now."

      "It's his body," Harriman pointed out.

      Blake stiffened. "Don't you think that I'm very aware of that? But I will not let him run wild and the rebellion needs me, at least for now. Later..." Blake trailed off, distressed by the thought that he was the one who should be dead, still caught up in what he had done with Jorge in control.

      Cally touched his shoulder. "We should go. The others will be teleporting back soon."

      He nodded, lowered himself off the table and took the teleport bracelet she handed to him. He held out his hand to Harriman, waiting. The other man placed the print delicately in his palm, and Blake closed his fingers over it.

      "Thank you."

      Harriman turned away abruptly, as if it hurt too much to watch them leave.

      "Bring us up, Orac."

      

      

"Avon?" Silence greeted him, and he slipped inside, eyes darting around.

      "Avon... Shit!" Vila gasped as he saw the man huddled in a corner. Half-crouched and naked, Avon's position didn't totally hide the fact that his hands were manacled together. Dark bruises stood out starkly against the pallor of his skin, and as Vila went closer, he could see thin streaks of blood across the other man's buttocks.

      "Avon, who did this to you?" He knelt beside the injured man. There were half-dried tear tracks on Avon's face, and with a sinking feeling, Vila knew who must have been responsible. Beatings and rape would be especially hard on a man like Avon, but Vila couldn't imagine it bringing him to tears. Unless his tormentor had been someone he cared about, someone he'd trusted.

      "Avon? Can you hear me?" Vila spoke very gently, staying within Avon's line of sight, in case he opened his eyes. Carefully, he reached out, tentative fingers brushing against Avon's forehead. A tiny flinch and Avon opened his eyes. His expression was one of disbelief.

      "Vila?"

      "Yes. We're all okay." Vila frowned as the expression on Avon's face changed, as if a door had been shut.

      "And Blake?"

      Vila could only guess as the motivation behind the question. "He's fine. I wasn't there but Jenna said that they got Harriman to fix what he did. Blake's Blake again."

      "Damn Blake," Avon's voice shook. The dark eyes closed and he leaned into the wall.

      As he picked the lock securing Avon's hands, Vila worried about his physical state as well as his mental condition, but he hardly dared ask about what had been done.

      "Here, Avon. I'll get your clothes." His usual nervous chatter deserting him, Vila scurried over to a pile of garments.

      "Does Blake remember?"

      Vila froze, hearing the unspoken 'raping me'.

      "I don't know. Jenna said he was very upset and that he insisted I come get you, not either of the girls."

      "I see." The words were clipped and Vila's tension jumped a notch. Nevertheless, he brought the clothes over.

      Stiffly, Avon pulled on shirt and jacket. But when he tried to stand to pull on his trousers, he nearly fell over.

      "Here, let me help," Vila pleaded, holding Avon steady as carefully as he could. He could feel the trembling that racked the other man's frame. "Once you're dressed, we can teleport back and get you to medical."

      Avon glared but Vila merely held him more firmly and gestured to his trousers.

      "I know what it's like, Avon. I was raped in prison, more than once. It hurts. As much in here," Vila tapped Avon's chest, "as the obvious places."

      Avon flushed but he managed to get his trousers up.

      "It wasn't Blake, you know," Vila added.

      This time Avon did more than glare. He pulled away violently, using the wall for support.

      "Maybe not, but it was his face. His body!" Face whitening, Avon turned away from the compassion in Vila's eyes, pressing his head to the cool metal of the wall.

      "Blake would never hurt you like that. He's your friend. He loves you, Avon. Can't you see that?" Vila could see Avon was reaching his limits, exhausted emotionally as well as physically.

      "Love? I felt his love, Vila. It wasn't particularly enjoyable." There was despair in Avon's voice and a terrible anger behind it.

      "Stop it," Vila said angrily. "You know it wasn't him, not in any way that matters."

      "I... yes, I do." Avon's head stayed bowed against the wall.

      Vila sighed. Reaching out, he pulled Avon into his arms, holding him in a loose embrace, offering what comfort he could, hoping Avon would accept. For a while, it seemed he could not, the body in Vila's arms remaining tight with tension and stress. But that slowly changed, the sable head dropping to rest against Vila's shoulder. Soothingly, Vila rubbed at the still shaking shoulders, giving Avon a chance to work through it.

      After a few minutes, he fished a teleport bracelet from his pocket, holding it out. "Back to the ship?"

      Avon picked it up, snapping it on. His face showed neither anger nor confusion. It was as blank and cold as Vila had ever seen it, the frozen isolation had returned. Avon pulled away, activating his bracelet.

      "Teleport, Orac." And they were gone.

      

      

The dimmer lighting of the night cycle should have been relaxing. It wasn't. Blake sat on the couch and stared at the pattern of stars on the viewscreen. Normally he'd have used this late night shift as a chance to plan ahead, to consult Orac on possible strike points, and decide where a single blow would inflict maximum damage for the least risk. Tonight, he couldn't concentrate, he wasn't himself at all. And that was the crux of the matter, wasn't it?

      Who was he?

      Was he Roj Blake, or was he simply the ghost of a dead man? Did he even have any right to be here? He lived at the cost of his brother's life. Was there even a point in fighting any more?

      And then there was Avon. It had been more than twelve hours since they'd come back on board  _Liberator_ , in all that time, he'd not seen so much as a breath of Avon. Avon was avoiding him, and it was impossible not to comprehend why. Blake clenched his fingers angrily into his thighs, seeking the pain as a distraction from intolerable memories: Avon's naked body lying pale on the floor before him; Avon's eyes looking at him, filled with loss, pain and betrayal. How could they continue on the same ship together? It was impossible. Avon would never be able to escape from the memory, and he himself would never be able to escape from the guilt.

      Cally had sensed some of his disquiet, without realising its full cause. She'd tried to sympathise, to explain that Avon would understand whatever had happened to him, that it hadn't really been Blake. There was no need for him to feel guilty: he hadn't done anything; it had been Jorge. He wondered if she'd have felt the same way if she'd known it had been rape rather than a beating. Probably. Cally had both ruthless logic and great sensitivity. She would support him as long as she believed him to be innocent.

      But was he innocent? Blake stared down at his hands. He felt revulsion so strong that he was almost physically sick, but he also remembered the excitement. The tightness of Avon's body around his penis, the stab of pure pleasure as he thrust into the man. The memory wasn't the distant recollection of a stranger. He had been there in the first person - it was immediate, he had done it. He would have given anything to erase the memory and the self-loathing that went with it.

      Hearing the sound of someone coming down the steps, Blake turned to look over his shoulder. Avon stood, a black silhouette against the light of the corridor. Wearing disdain like a cloak, he walked over to his flight position without saying a word.

      Was that how it was going to be? Were they to live as strangers to one another, until the pressure became so great that one of them snapped?

      "Avon, we have to talk."

      "Really?" A tone of complete disinterest: an obvious dismissal.

      Blake hesitated in the face of that. Surely Avon had a right to privacy after what he had just undergone? Yet, he had his own needs too. He had to reassert his own identity, distance himself from what had happened. How could he believe in himself, if Avon did not? The need to share his confusion and guilt with the only other person who really knew what had happened, warred with Avon's obvious need to be alone. In the end, respect won - he might be ready to talk about what had happened, but Avon obviously wasn't.

      "I'm sorry," he said, with all the sincerity he could muster, and made to leave the flight deck.

      Avon's voice stopped him. "You're sorry!" he said incredulously. "And I suppose that makes everything all right?"

      Blake was forced to stop and face him directly, and it was even worse than he had feared. Tired circles under Avon's eyes showed how little he had slept that night; hands tightly gripping the edge of the console revealed the strain he was under. "It's easy for you," Avon snapped. "You aren't the one it happened to."

      Sympathy should have been the appropriate response, the only justified one under the circumstances, but Blake was tired too.

      "How the hell would you know? Don't you think it's just as bad being forced to do something that's abhorrent to every principle I live by?"

      "No."

      "Then there's not really much more that we can say to each other is there?" He stalked angrily past Avon towards the exit.

      "Blake." Avon's voice was so soft that he almost missed it. "Tell me this: did you enjoy it?"

      Spinning around, Blake slammed his fist onto the console. "He enjoyed it. That means I remember enjoying it. Does that make you happy?"

      "Not really."

      Something in Avon's voice suggested an understanding that Blake hadn't been prepared for. It was all suddenly too much for him. Folding his arms on the edge of the console, he buried his head in his sleeves and spoke through the muffling fabric. "He's left me so that I don't even know who I am anymore. What feelings are mine, and which are his?"

      "Meaning?"

      Meaning that he didn't dare look up, because Avon, even tired and on edge, suddenly seemed infinitely desirable. Meaning that he knew, without looking, the generous line traced by the curve of Avon's lips, the precise way that his hair was disordered, the exact shade of brown of his eyes. Meaning that he wanted to hold Avon in ways that he'd never wanted to hold him before. Was it simply some part of himself that he'd never recognised before, or was it lingering fragments of Jorge's personality that were turning him into some kind of monster?

      "Meaning nothing."

      "Meaning that you're afraid you've turned into some kind of pervert?"

      Damn Avon and his intuition, that was too close to the bone for comfort. Blake lifted his head to glare at him. "Meaning that I need to know I'm me. I'm  _dead_ , Avon, or had that escaped your notice?"

      Avon made one of his abrupt shifts from anger to humour, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You talk too much for a dead man."

      "I suppose you'd prefer it if I was dead," Blake said bitterly.

      Avon considered that with mock seriousness. "No," he said finally. "I'd get bored arguing with anyone else."

      "So, you do think I'm me?"

      There was a sense of desperation in Blake's voice, a desperation that matched something equally deep in Avon. Blake wasn't the only one who needed to know, who had to be certain. If this man was Roj Blake, then Avon needed to find his way back to the understanding they'd once had: the understanding that allowed each to anticipate the other, aggravate the hell out of him, and to trust him. If this wasn't Roj Blake, then he had to kill him.

      Cally thought this was the real Blake, but Avon didn't care to rely on Cally's judgement. He stared thoughtfully at Blake, studying the other man's every movement, the slight shifting of feet, the nervous chewing of a knuckle bone, and the eyes that never left Avon's. This wasn't the desperation of a man who was worried as to whether people would follow him: a man trying to pass off a lie. This was the panic of a man who'd already had his memory tampered with by the Federation; a man who had learned to doubt what he knew as reality; a man who'd been accused of raping children; a man who had to live with the knowledge that he'd raped a friend. This was Roj Blake: flawed, idealistic, frequently idiotic, and desperate for reassurance; a man as badly scarred by this experience as Avon himself. A mere 'yes' in answer wasn't going to be enough.

      "Don't move," Avon ordered gently.

      Blake looked at him in puzzlement, but kept still as Avon stepped down from his flight position to Blake's level. Steeling his nerves, Avon stretched himself up slightly. He brushed Blake's lips lightly with his own, and took a pace back.

      Blake screwed his eyes shut, bit his bottom lip, and gave a choked off sob. Avon waited patiently. He'd given Blake everything he could - a reaction was inevitable. Blake opened his eyes slowly and held out his hands, reaching for Avon, but not quite touching him. Avon swallowed his own reaction to that. Blake wouldn't touch him unless he allowed it. This was Roj, not Jorge, he told himself firmly. There was no danger; he was safe here. Reaching out, he touched Blake's hands, then pulled him firmly into an embrace. He needed this; they both needed this. Two victims of the same event, they came together in a common affirmation of friendship. And then it was more. A kiss that neither could remember starting, joined them in a more personal link. An ebb and flow of life between them, an affirmation of a mutual love and passion. A tasting, a blending, a sharing of spirit, a declaration that bound them in ways they hadn't yet begun to consider.

      Not today, not tomorrow, perhaps not even that month, not until Avon had fully recovered from the trauma of rape, would they become lovers; but it would happen. The freedom fighter and the embezzler; the rebel and the cynic; the man who hesitated to kill his worst enemy, and the man who rarely hesitated at all. An impossible relationship, probably a doomed one - it would be foolish to attempt it at all. But sometimes, just sometimes, fortune favours fools.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Jorge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4829876) by [HermitLibrary_Archivist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermitLibrary_Archivist/pseuds/HermitLibrary_Archivist)




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